


THE BLUE MORPHO MEETS THE MARQUIS DE SADE

by MorphoFan



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Gen, Humor, Non-Consensual Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 19:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9137521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorphoFan/pseuds/MorphoFan
Summary: The Blue Morpho and Kano set out to knock another super villain off their list. But Monarch learns quickly that the level 10 Marquis De Sade is not nearly as frightening as his wife, Lissette, and her curious-yet-effective methods of interrogation. Let the torture begin!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lotolle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lotolle/gifts).



> OK, my best fandom friend can attest to the fact that drugs are to blame for this fic. My prescribed steroids did very funny things to my brain, and the idea for the fic was one of the funnies. It's pretty much just a shameless tickling fic, but I tried to work in some plot here and there. Hope you enjoy it. Sorry.

THE BLUE MORPHO MEETS THE MARQUIS DE SADE

Monarch awoke with a start, his head spinning a bit, and he recognized the after-effects of chloroform. He glanced around at the unfamiliar room, and tried to sit up, only to find he was strapped to a table.

Oh, right... he'd been captured again. Same shit, different villain. The Blue Morpho's life was a gay, mad whirl, after all. 

This time The Blue Morpho and Kano had been scoping out the lair of a villain called The Marquis de Sade. Only the villain didn't pronounce his name 'sahd' like the infamous French writer of violent erotica.

Nope. The Marquis was apparently a hard-core (forgive the pun) fan of the British smooth jazz band, Sade, made famous by 'Smooth Operator.'

The Marquis de Sah-DAY. It was just getting stupid, now....

The real kicker to this particular arch-villain wasn't so much the man himself, or his stupid name. It was his seemingly infallible method of extracting information from his victims. 

No fewer than a dozen registered protagonists had reported various compromises of their protected information and assets to the OSI.

A few of them had given up their Swiss bank account numbers and PIN codes. Others had ratted out their fellow protagonists on their wrongdoing and violations of OSI law. Still others had warned The Marquis himself of plots against him.

The high level of success in the villain's interrogation methods was a source of much talk among the protagonists and antagonists, alike, and it had rocketed the man's EMA level to a 10 in a matter of a few months. 

That, in turn, had gotten the attention of Wide Wale, who had wasted no time in giving The Marquis rights to arch Venture. Which automatically put him on the Monarch's shit list. 

Just as well, he'd been getting bored. He and Twenty-One were running out of villains to thwart, and they still weren't quite ready to take down Wide Wale.

Now he took inventory of his current situation. 

His arms were bent at the elbows, and wrists were strapped to the table just above his head, with additional straps around his biceps. Other straps held him at each ankle, and another across his thighs. The straps were leather lined with what felt like lamb's wool. 

The table upon which he was strapped was very nice, smooth mahogany. It was in the center of a plush, decadent great room. The high ceilings were hung with chandeliers, and ornate oil paintings covered the walls. 

A magnificent fireplace was the centerpiece of the far wall. At the opposite wall was a large display cabinet of glass and copper.

Apparently The Marquis had some money... and if you had to be tortured, it was nice to be tortured in style....

Ah well, Twenty-One would be bursting in to save him any minute now. 

That was the usual pattern. Bad guy grabs him, ties him up, a little torture, a little danger, a little characteristic Blue Morpho defiance. Then enter Kano, stage left, and watch the bad guy get pummeled into the floor.

"Allo, Monsieur Blue Morpho!"

The sudden, girlish, melodically-accented voice startled him, and he turned his head as a young woman came to stand beside the table.

She was tiny, barely five feet tall, with emerald green eyes and long, shiny black hair not unlike Dr. Mrs. The Monarch's. Her face was open and innocent-looking, her skin pale and as smooth as a rose petal. 

A minimum of makeup accented her sweet features, and she reminded Monarch of a porcelain figurine. He estimated her to be in her early twenties.

"Are you comfortable, darling?" she asked him politely.

"Surprisingly, yes," Monarch replied, nodding a little.

"I'm so glad," she said happily, walking beside the table, trailing her fingers down the length of his body as she went.

"You're not The Marquis de Sade, are you?" Monarch asked, shivering a little at her touch, "Because I was expecting someone more... well, a dude, to be honest."

"No no," she replied coyly, looking back over her shoulder from near his feet, "I am Lissette, his wife."

"Right," Monarch said with a nod, looking around, suddenly confused.

"This may be a stupid question," he said, "I remember being chloroformed... and HOW did you manage to get me up on this table? You weigh about as much as one of my legs."

"Oh, no, that was Marq," she said, "He handles the heavy lifting, I do the interrogating. We work as a team." 

She hopped up to sit beside Monarch's legs and stroked his knee thoughtfully through his blue trousers.

"Makes sense," the masked vigilante said, "And he is... where, exactly?"

"Oh he stepped out," she said cheerfully, "I like to work alone, but he'll be back later... once you have told me everything I want to know." 

Monarch swallowed a bit nervously. She hopped off the table and came to stand at his head, leaning down to gaze into his eyes.

"So you were wondering how we are so successful with our interrogating?" she asked, tossing his fedora onto the floor and stroking his hair, playfully.

"OK, fine, I'll play along," Monarch said with a grin, "Yes. I am here to divulge your secrets on how you divulge everyone else's secrets."

She laughed delightedly, and moved further down the table toward his midsection.

"Well, as you know, most men in your line of work are rather impervious to pain," she said, "So I realized that pain was not going to be a... how do you say... effective means of persuasion."

Monarch just eyed her curiously as she laid open his overcoat and began to unbutton his jacket.

"And to be honest, we have no desire to hurt anyone... not even the good guys," she continued, with another sweet smile. 

"Leaving scars and ugly marks on the body is so vulgar, and so unnecessary."

She opened Monarch's jacket and tugged his navy blue dress shirt out of his trousers, and began to unbutton it.

"What ARE you doing?" the red-haired man asked, raising his head and watching her.

"I'm just preparing you, darling," she said, continuing to unbutton his shirt. She peeled it open, and leaned over to study his bare torso.

"Very nice," she murmured, "You have some nice muscles here," she pointed to his stomach, but didn't touch him, "And such pale, velvety skin. Beautiful."

"Uhhh... thank you?" Monarch muttered, feeling more confused and anxious with each passing moment. What WAS this crazy woman planning?

She reached next to him and pulled another retractable strap out of the table, and pulled it tightly over his sternum, buckling it in place. Then she moved further down his body and produced another strap, and fastened it across his hips, just below the waistline of his trousers.

He struggled discretely, and found his upper body had been completely immobilized.

"I do like it when Marq gives me a good-looking young man to work on," she said coyly.

She opened a hidden drawer under the table and withdrew a long, ornate wooden box.

"He keeps bringing me these doughy old men. Where is the fun in that?"

She laid the box on the table and unlatched it. Monarch's eyes widened a bit as she opened it, expecting her to pull out a dagger or other such implement.

Instead, she drew out a long, black feather.

"A nice, toned tummy like yours is much more fun to play with. More sensitive, yes?" She smiled down at him, coming to ruffle his hair again, "More responsive."

"Do you just want my PIN or something?" Monarch asked, pulling at his bound wrists, "Because I am TOTALLY down with that."

"No, you don't get out of it THAT easily," she purred, leaning down to brush the feather over his face.

He sputtered and turned his face away, and she laughed.

She moved back to his side and hopped up onto the table, then moved to straddle his hips. 

"Why are you here?" she asked softly, running the feather softly between her fingers, gazing down at him with her big, green eyes, smiling a little.

"I'm selling cookies," Monarch grumbled, trying to shift her off of him, "Honey those stilettos are like, digging RIGHT into my legs."

"Aww, you're so cute," she giggled, "You want to play? I like to play, too."

She reached down and stroked the feather across his midriff, just below the base of his rib-cage.

"MMPH," Monarch had to bite back a yelp as his abs contracted, almost painfully.

She trailed the feather slowly back and forth across his skin a few times, never taking her eyes off his face, her smile widening as he whimpered.

After a few tense moments, he got control of himself, and schooled all signs of agitation from his face.

"Aww," she said, pouting prettily, "Is that all you have for me?"

He just glared at her, breathing hard through his nose.

"Why are you here?" she asked again.

"Fuck you," he growled, tugging at his restraints.

She gasped in pretend shock, holding her hand to her mouth.

"Such language!" she scolded, putting her hands on her hips and giving him a mock-stern look.

She shifted backwards along his body a few inches, and dusted the feather over the deep hollows on either side of his six-pack. Up, down, up, down. Over to the other side. Up, down, up, down.

His stomach muscles were clenching and shuddering with every pass of the feather, he turned his head to the side and squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth, trying to block out the sensations. 

But every nerve on his body was jangling like a fire alarm, every muscle sending his brain a message to stop the terrible stimulation. Everything in him screamed to escape, and he couldn't move.

"Ahh, that's better," his tormentor cooed, moving the feather a bit faster over his skin. 

She used the stiff tip of the feather to trace the outline of each six-pack muscle individually, working her way lower. 

His heart begin to pound as the instrument of torture drew close to his navel, and he breathed a sigh of relief when she bypassed it to move lower on his body.

His relief was short lived, though, because next she began to tickle his lower belly, just above the waistline of his trousers, tracing a series of tiny circles along the tight skin between his hipbones.

"Ah, AHH, GAH, STOP!" He ground out, throwing his head back, sweat pouring down his face.

"Do you want me to stop?" she asked softly, still tickling him.

"YES!"

"Why are you here?" the tickling stopped.

That sugary, little-girl voice with its delicate not-quite-identifiable accent was going to haunt his nightmares for YEARS.

"Hello? Did you hear me, darling?" the sweet voice asked again. 

The feather was stroked briefly across his belly, just once. It jolted him back into the moment, and he spoke without thinking.

"I'm here to... NO!" 

What the hell? He'd nearly caved.

"What? I don't understand," she said, cocking her pretty head inquisitively.

"Sorry," Monarch gasped, "My brain isn't functioning too well right now. I meant that no, I am not going to talk. You are not going to break me."

She just looked at him, the smile melting from her face, her face losing all trace of its playful sweetness.

You can rescue me any time now, Twenty-One, Monarch thought, licking the sweat from his upper lip.

She leaned forward, laying on top of him, and reached up to run her fingers through his sweaty hair, then down to caress his scarlet goatee. Her long nails felt strangely good on his face, and he closed his eyes.

She rested her head on his shoulder, and he could feel her breath tickling his ear. Well this was certainly an improvement over being tickle-tortured, but it was still weird....

"OK, there, sweetheart," he murmured, "Bring it down a couple of notches, I'm married."

"I saw you flinch," she whispered, brushing her lips over his ear.

His eyes flew open, and he turned his head to look at her. She smiled, crinkling her nose at him.

"Whaaaat are you talking about, now?" he asked nervously, even though he already knew EXACTLY what she was talking about. 

She just smiled, trailed her fingertip over his lips.

"Odd little things, belly buttons," she purred, "They are a sort of... how do you say... 'Crap Shoot' in my line of work." 

She rubbed his chest soothingly, over the strap across his sternum.

Monarch just stared at her, trying not to show fear, but his heart was pounding so hard, he was sure she could feel it under her hand.

"Some people aren't ticklish in their belly button at all," she explained, moving to straddle his hips once more, the playful, impish look returning to her face.

"And then some people are more sensitive there than anyplace else on their whole bodies."

"Ohh, no, no, no...OK," Monarch said, pulling at his trapped arms, "OK, uncle, I give, whatever, banana, what IS your safe word, anyway, Little Miss Crazy Tits?"

She just sat perched there, smiling at him, and smoothed the feather between her thumb and forefinger.

"Why are you here?"

"I was here to learn the secret behind The Marquis de Sade's interrogation techniques," Monarch said plainly.

She giggled and reached down to swipe the feather across his nose, and he sneezed.

"Marq just pays the bills," she explained delicately, "I do the interrogating. He brought me over from Paris with him a few months ago."

"THAT'S the accent," Monarch said, rolling his eyes, "French. You're... French...."

He stopped talking as he suddenly realized that he knew, without a doubt, what this lady villain called herself.

"I am The French Tickler," she said, as if reading his thoughts.

"Oh brother," he muttered, closing his eyes and letting his head thunk back against the table top.

She reached down and used the stiff tip of the feather to tease the rim of his navel, and Monarch lost all semblance of control. In a matter of seconds he was reduced to a shrieking, squealing, pleading wreck, writhing with what little range of motion he had.

"AUUGH NO! NO NO NO, PLEEEEAASE! STOP STAHHHHP! EEEEEEK!"

His psychotic assailant giggled with glee. 

She poked the feather deeper into his belly button, twisting it between her fingers, and he collapsed in a boneless heap, undone by the intense, ticklish sensations shooting through his body. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak, he could hardly breathe.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she paused, and the vigilante gasped for air like a landed fish. He had tears running from under his mask, soaking his neck.

"I feel like you have more secrets?" she said, cocking her head a little.

Monarch was still trying to breathe, and shook his head, refusing to speak.

With a shrug she tossed the feather aside and began tickling him with her fingernails, using both hands to ruffle the sparse trail of hair that trailed from his navel to his waistline.

Monarch was about to lose his mind. His abs were burning from the constant flinching and contracting away from the stimulation, his chest ached from laughing so hard for so long, there were spots dancing in front of his eyes from a shortage of oxygen, and his feet had gone numb from her sitting on his legs.

"Come on, pretty," she said, "Tell Madame everything... tell me what you are hiding from me."

She moved her hands to his sides, delicately scuttling her nails up and down, from his rib-cage to his waist.

"AHH EEK EEEEEK, STOP! I'LL TALK!" he finally wailed.

"I'm listening," she said, lightly sweeping her nails over his six-pack.

"I'm here to... EEEK! To stop The Marquis from AHHAHAHAHA arching Doctor Ven... NONONO STAHHHHP!"

"And what else," she said, sounding bored, one hand dancing back and forth across his belly button.

"I...I AIIIEEEE, GAHHHD!... I'm not really... I'm not really The Blue Morpho," he gasped, "I'm The M...M...Mon...!"

*CRASH*

The door was kicked in, and both Monarch and his torturer looked over.

"GET AWAY FROM HIM!"

Twenty-One stood there, pointing his gas gun at the woman, but now looking decidedly confused.

"Umm, uhh... wait, what?" he stuttered, lowering the gun.

"Oh, allo Monsieur Kano!" the woman called cheerily, waving to him, before going to back to work on Monarch's tummy.

"NYAAAH GAHHHHD, KANOOOOO!" 

"You have GOT to be fucking kidding," Twenty-One said, just staring at the situation.

"DO SOMETHING!" Monarch screeched, then went back to screaming with laughter.

"THIS is the cutting-edge interrogation method we heard about? Really?" the big man came forward, shaking his head.

"OK you can judge me LATER!" Monarch choked, still caught in the throes of ticklish anguish as she continued tormenting him.

"Would you just GAS HER, PLEASE?"

"OK, OK, chill," Twenty-One stepped forward, pulled the trigger, and enveloped The French Tickler in a cloud of royal blue vapor.

She immediately went limp, slipping sideways off Monarch's body. 

Ever the gentleman, Twenty-One stepped forward and caught her before she could fall off the table, and gently lowered her to the floor.

He moved to stand over his gasping, sweating, trembling boss, and folded his arms sternly.

"Are you OK?" the burly henchman asked wryly.

Monarch just looked sheepishly up at him, chest still heaving.

"I could hear you SCREAMING from the other end of the house," the henchman continued, pointing to the destroyed door, "And this is a big fucking HOUSE!"

"I don't want to talk about it," Monarch said, trying to avoid his bodyguard's eyes, "Just untie me, will you?"

"Do you know how scared I was just now?" Twenty-One scolded, moving to undo the straps holding his friend's wrists and torso, "I thought you were fucking DYING in here." 

"Pretty damn near!" Monarch replied defensively, sitting up as Twenty-One moved to release his ankles.

"So THIS is what I need to do next time I want a pay raise?" the big bodyguard chuckled.

"Oh you're fucking hilarious," Monarch grumbled as he vigorously rubbed his belly, trying to get rid of the residual tingling. He buttoned up his shirt, and Twenty-One helped him off the table.

"Weirdest. Super Villain. Ever."

The two men stood there, Twenty-One still chuckling at the situation, Monarch tucking his shirt into his trousers and buttoning his jacket.

"So, regarding The Marquis de Sade," Twenty-One began....

"The what?" Monarch asked, looking a little shell-shocked.

"The Marquis de Sade?" Twenty-One repeated, "You know, the guy we came here to confront?"

"Right right right," Monarch said, finally shaking off his torture session. He smoothed his hair back, and retrieved his blue fedora where it had dropped to the floor, "Any thoughts?"

Twenty-One looked around the ornate, plush room, and his eyes settled on The French Tickler on the floor.

"We could kidnap her," he suggested, pointing, with a halfhearted shrug, "I'm sure The Marquis would give up his arching rights to get her back."

"NOOOPE."

"Why not?" the henchman said, confused.

"That chick is NOT coming with us," Monarch said firmly, "No fucking way, I don't want to be anywhere NEAR her, awake OR unconscious."

Twenty-One burst out laughing, shaking his head.

"You've gone up against some of the most horrifying super-villains in the world," he chortled, "But a 110-pound little slip of a girl terrifies you?"

"Size and gender has NOTHING to do with it," Monarch insisted, moving to explore the room in closer detail.

"You missed most of it, but trust me, that little filly is CRAY-CRAY."

"Sort of glad I did miss it," the henchman said, eyeing his boss, "You're still shaking."

"Forget it, let's just find something we can use against this guy," Monarch muttered, moving to stand in front of the fancy glass display cabinet. He pressed his hands against the glass and studied the contents of the cabinet.

"Ahhh, here we go, this might be just what we need," he said, nodding, a grin spreading over his face.

* * *

A few hours later, The Marquis de Sade returned home, and made his way down the hall toward the great room.

"Lissette! Daddy is home, princess!" he called.

He froze as he saw the door kicked in, then charged into the room.

"Darling?" he cried out, "Lissette, where are you?"

His eyes settled on his wife, still unconscious on the floor beside the table. With a cry of alarm, he ran to her, and gently sat her up to cradle her against his chest.

"Lissette, angel!" he called, gently slapping at her porcelain cheek, "Wake up!"

She moaned, and her big green eyes opened, and focused on his face.

"Marq?" she said softly.

He hugged her to him in relief, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her across the room to ease her gently into an armchair.

"Tell me who has done this to you, my sweet angel," he said sternly.

She held a hand to her head, running her fingers through her long, black hair, as she tried to remember.

"Ah! It was The Blue Morpho!" she said, after a minute, "He and his bodyguard were here. I interrogated him, but I am afraid they escaped."

She pouted prettily, and leaned again The Marquis.

"I'm sorry, Marq," she cooed sadly.

"Never mind, pet," the older man said, hugging her to him, "As long as you are safe, that is all I care ab.... WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?"

He had just spotted his display cabinet, or rather, the fact that the glass was smashed and the cabinet was now EMPTY.

Leaving his dazed wife in the chair, he raced to his cabinet, and just stared in horror. His collection. It was gone. 

His signed Sade albums. The personalized, autographed 8 by 10 glossies. The silk napkin with Sade Adu's lipstick stain on it. The letter that the coffee-colored Goddess herself had written to him... all gone.

His legs went weak, and he sank down to sit on the richly-carpeted floor, hugging his knees to his chest.

Suddenly his cell phone beeped to announce the arrival of a message, and he fumbled in his pocket for the device. He popped it open, and stared at the image, his face going white.

There was The Blue Morpho, holding Marq's precious letter from Sade in one hand and a lighter in the other. 

"NO!" he gasped.

More beeps followed, and more photos flooded into his phone. He scrolled through them with growing horror, each one showed one of his precious Sade treasures in some sort of peril.

Then a text message....

"Mssr. Marquis de Sade, The Blue Morpho demands that you immediately contact The Guild of Calamitous Intent and give up your rights to arch Dr. Thaddeus Venture. Once we have received confirmation that this has been done, your items will be returned to you. Disobey us, and...."

And one last photo. 

His original 1984 pressing of 'Diamond Life,' signed by the entire band, propped up in a urinal. And standing at the ready, his hands at his fly, grinning cheekily over his shoulder at the camera, was the...

"BLUE MORPHO!!!!!"

THE END  
I'm so sorry.


End file.
